


The Bee Grove

by Random_Nexus



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Bees, Bisexuality, Happy Ending, Homosexuality, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Hiatus, Prompt Fic, Suicide Notes, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 20:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8027908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: Watson travels to Kent to attend the funeral of an estranged friend from his past who committed suicide. Certain things transpire to make Watson wonder if his inappropriate love for Holmes could possibly be requited. After drinking a bit too much on the train home, he drafts a letter to Holmes revealing all, but isn't sure he will ever have the courage to potentially ruin everything by giving it to Holmes. Of course, things go terribly awry, and it will take a timely intervention by Mycroft Holmes to set things back on track.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally started this with the intention of submitting it for an upcoming anthology with the theme of Sherlock Holmes and bees; however, as will surprise absolutely no one who's familiar with my writing, it went far too long for the anthology's story limits. So, here it is. This fic is COMPLETE and I will be posting it by chapters over the next couple of weeks.
> 
>  **Special Note:** I would like to warmly and squeefully thank [Tysolna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tysolna/pseuds/Tysolna) for the loving application of both the Proof-Loofah™ and Beta-Stick© despite gruelling work schedules and all the expected difficulties of trying to confab from opposite sides of a considerable curvature of the Earth. <3 Anything still perquackity is my fault.

**Wednesday, 29 April, 1896**  
**~Prologue~**

What was once pale-golden morning light, dappling and spangling the garden and walkways, eventually became warm-golden afternoon light, sending fingers of amber through the sparse barriers of the tops of hedgerows and the bottoms of draped branches.

Sherlock Holmes had witnessed all the hours from mid-morning to mid-afternoon, albeit distractedly, with a piece of paper in his hand. The piece of paper, much crumpled and smoothed in turns throughout the hours of the spring day, bore handwriting upon it, the words set down having been dismissed with each crumpling and studied with each smoothing.

Only one person had disturbed the sun-freckled spot all that day, and then only the once; an elderly woman with a short yet sturdy build, her sternly braided black hair streaked with white, and with Chinese features set in an expression surely handed down from some warlord or imperial ancestor; even Sherlock Holmes dared not refuse tea and delicate sandwiches from such a forbidding woman, nor complain that the tray held far more than necessary for one person. Of course, once he’d drank and eaten a bit, the woman’s iron-hard expression softened and she dared to leave a kiss upon the crown of the man’s dark head before letting him be. If there came a slight crease in the lean cheeks of the great Detective as he was once again left to his thoughts, well, surely it was the old woman’s due as the only one brave enough to disregard his own forbidding manner. That she’d known him since he was in nappies surely factored into the matter somewhere.

After his semi-forced sustenance, the handwritten message remained flat—well, flat _ish_ —upon his thigh. Putting his head back and closing his eyes, Holmes listened in silence, as he had done many times throughout the day, and though the breeze was a gentle one, barely stirring the greenery about him, it wasn’t the whisper of branches and leaves to which Holmes listened; it was the droning hum of the bees going about their business, hundreds and hundreds of tiny black and gold bumblebees buzzing amidst the flowers bedecking most of the plants in the garden.

Though he sighed deeply, brow furrowed, the sound did seem to soothe Holmes a bit—no doubt why he’d gone there in the first place—and he left his open hand resting upon the paper atop his thigh. His lips moved, as did his features, though subtly, as if he rehearsed a conversation in his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Friday, 24 April, 1896 ~ Five Days Earlier**   
**~Holmes~**

Dr. John Watson had just set his travelling satchel and medical bag on the chair nearest the door of the sitting room at 221b Baker Street when Sherlock Holmes came in. Watson opened his mouth to greet his friend and fellow lodger, but Holmes beat him to it.

“Good afternoon, Watson. I see you’ve been called away to visit an old friend,” Holmes said, having given Watson one quick glance, down and back again, and then his bags and their small dining table and the mantel. Watson’s brows rose and where he would have normally grinned at Holmes’ perspicacity, he only smiled a bit. Holmes tilted his head ever so slightly, giving Watson another look, his own expression shifting to one somewhat graver. “Ah, my condolences, old boy.”

“Thanks,” Watson replied, nodding even as Holmes rested one hand upon the doctor’s shoulder, squeezing gently. The touch seemed to help, as Watson relaxed marginally, his whole body inclining ever so slightly into Holmes’ touch. “I shall, indeed, be visiting an old friend, but… at his funeral.”

“An accident or sudden malady?” Holmes peered down at Watson, grey eyes taking in all his little tells in the sharp manner for which he was famous. “Something worse?”

Discomfited, surely, but never having the thought of concealing the truth from his dearest friend, Watson sighed, features pulling even more into grief and woe. “They _said_ it was an accident while cleaning his gun, but… well…” Shrugging, Watson swallowed a bit thickly.

“Either he would never have had an accident of that sort or… ah… he would not have been cleaning a gun, I take it?” Watson merely nodded, taking a bracing breath against an obvious reluctance to speak the dread words. Holmes, as was typical of him, had no such compunction. “Suicide? My god, what a waste. Any idea why?”

Well inured to Holmes’ typical bluntness, Watson shook his head this time, though after a moment he found his voice again. “I hope to discover that when I visit. He lost his lower left leg and very nearly his left arm in the war, about seven months or so before I was first wounded, and he swore he would never touch a gun again as long as he…” Watson cleared his throat and Holmes, who had not yet released his friend’s shoulder, gave another squeeze, “…as he lived.”

Holmes looked concerned, though only one familiar with him could have distinguished it from its close cousin sternness. “You served together,” he said sombrely, not having deduced that bit of data. “I would have said school chum, perhaps university.”

“You would not have been wrong,” Watson assured him, clearing his throat again. “We were at university together, took on medicine together, and then went to war together.” His expression was wryly fond, despite his grief. “Both in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, C.J. and I.” At a lift of one darkly-arched brow from his friend, Watson gave a breathy approximation of an apologetic chuckle—not one of his best. “Sorry, my dear Holmes. Lieutenant Christopher James Wainwright. Wainwright and Watson—we were seated together in classes and it stuck.” He shook his head, another attempt at humour failing him.

“You drifted apart after he was invalided home.” Holmes looked curious, eyes on Watson and brain blatantly spinning again. “Then you came home and… you did not seek to stay with him instead of here in London…?” 

Watson’s expression closed as he looked down and away, his voice thickening again as he said, “He didn’t want the reminder… of what we had been…” a rather strangled throat-clearing and Watson’s gaze did not lift again as he continued, “what we had been through. We corresponded a bit, but it wasn’t possible for us to go on as we had before. I didn’t like to press and… well, I’ve always preferred London.” His mouth managed a more genuine upward curve, his eyes lifting as well. “Perhaps it was fate. I’d hardly have met you if I’d gone to stay with… with old C.J., now would I?” Watson patted the hand still on his shoulder before sliding out from under it with reluctance. “Do excuse me, my dear chap. Must see that I’ve packed everything I shall need.”

Holmes studied his friend as Watson turned away, the detective’s brows just a tad furrowed, and he made a wordless murmur of agreement. Something was off, and it wasn’t simply Watson struggling with his grief. It was some other thing, and Holmes watched him until he reached the base of the stairs to his room before speaking again. “I don’t recall you ever mentioning your old friend C.J. Wainwright, Watson.”

Watson’s shoulders stiffened and, only turning his head to give Holmes a three-quarter rear profile, said, “You know how foolish those of us with all our inconvenient emotions and sentimentalities are, Holmes. I confess it hurt my feelings that he wouldn’t even have me out to visit for a few days. I suppose I’ve spent much of the time since avoiding thinking about him.” He put his foot upon the bottom step and sighed, bowing his head. “Now all I can think about is all the time we wasted.” 

When Watson continued up the stairs, Holmes didn’t stop him. There was more to the matter, he thought, but prying at Watson when he was already out of sorts would only lead to prizing out the cork keeping Watson’s temper inside. He’d certainly get nothing of sense out of the man then. 

Even knowing Watson was keeping some portion of the tale to himself, Holmes wished he could do more for his friend. He cared very much for John Watson, who had unexpectedly become his dearest friend. Even though Holmes generally abhorred the tenderer emotions due to their very distracting effects, that he disdained them didn’t keep him from experiencing them now and again. It was simply a matter of keeping a tight rein upon the deuced things and making sure they were ever subsumed to the tools of his chosen trade: Logic, reason, and clarity of thought. Besides, the trend those tender emotions tended toward was one which could never end well, and he would far rather keep the life he had than ruin it pursuing an unachievable goal. Logical, reasonable, and clearly thought out, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Saturday through Sunday, 25 & 26 April, 1896**  
**~Watson~**

Although C.J.’s sister Helena Wainwright had invited Watson to stay after the funeral and leave in the morning, he wasn’t at all sure he could bear it, no matter how comfortable he had once been in C.J.’s family home. It wasn’t just the memories that had come flooding back very nearly the instant he stepped over the threshold, but Helena’s tired and careworn grief, and the sharp ache in Watson’s chest as he passed the closed door to C.J.’s bedroom. However, when Helena brought Watson a familiar strongbox just after supper, setting it in his hands with an inordinately kind and gentle expression in her red-rimmed eyes, he knew he was very likely due for a tad more nostalgic heart-rending. 

Helena bade him keep the box and its contents, and patted his hand tenderly as she added, “Don’t feel obligated to share anything you don’t wish to, John. I know how close you and Christopher were before… you know… before the war… and he wouldn’t let me send for you, but he spoke of you fairly often. He read your stories in The Strand, too. I have done, as well, and they’re ever so fascinating. You write your adventures with Mr. Holmes so well. Anyhow… whatever’s in there, it’s between you two. Goodnight, Johnny.” Her lip was trembling a little when she rose on tip-toe to kiss Watson’s cheek, and he felt as if both of them were nearly drowning in memories of how it used to be. 

Watson hugged her gently, kissed her cheek, and bade her goodnight in his turn. They had been like siblings too, once upon a time, and she’d always been supportive of her younger brother having his best friend over to visit so often. C.J. had visited Watson quite a number of times as well, even though Watson’s home had been smaller and less… welcoming… than the Wainwright’s, but C.J. never teased Watson about his brother and father’s drinking nor his mother’s lacklustre parenting. 

Opening the strongbox did indeed bring forth another torrent of memories to bombard Watson until his eyes were hot and swollen and his throat clogged with melancholy and regret. He was not entirely surprised that C.J. had left him a letter, but, though he suspected what he would find inside the envelope, he chose to leave it for last. Obviously it was never meant to be mailed, as the only direction upon the envelope was ‘Captain John H. Watson – London’ and the return address was simply written as ‘C.J.W.’ in C.J.’s familiar hand.

> _My dear Johnny,_
> 
> _First of all, please forgive me, old friend, not only for what I’m about to do and will have done when you see this, but for all the time I’ve wasted foolishly clinging to my pride and my self-pity. I wish I had not turned you away when you needed me, when you were hurt and raw as I know you must have been upon returning from that hellish place._
> 
> _I never anticipated the horrors of war, only glory and righteous victory. How wrong I was. I think that place broke me, Johnny. Beyond losing part of my leg and the crippling of my arm, I think seeing so much death and bringing it upon others, myself; I think it wounded something deep inside me that I don’t believe can ever be healed. I’ve said this before, and you will remember it all, I’m certain, so it doesn’t need reiterating any further, but I only say this much to show you what I thought I was sparing you. I’m not who I was before we went to war and I’m half-certain I don’t really like who I became, but I think it’s too late to be fixed, Johnny. I can’t go on with the things in my head, the nightmares, the phantom sounds and all the rest. Forgive me, but I just can’t._
> 
> _You see, all this time I thought I was preserving our old friendship like pressing a flower in a book, not ruining it by exposing it—meaning you—to the reality of what I am now. But I’ve seen your stories in the Strand, bought your little books, and I see all that you’ve gone through with your detective friend. It made me realise I was doing you a disservice by assuming you wouldn’t face a bit more of another sort of battle, that you wouldn’t find a way ‘round it. Of course you would have done, Johnny, of course. It was wrong of me to assume you would turn from me, or that you’d hate me for letting the war break me; I should have given you a fair chance to decide for yourself. I know I hurt you, know you’re a better man than I, and yet I still fear you looking upon me as I am now and turning away. The thought won’t leave me, Johnny, and it tears my heart out every time. How I’ve wronged you and myself. How I’ve wasted all this time ruining what could have been something wonderful. I regret that most of all, the waste of time we could have spent making better memories, maybe figuring out a way to fix whatever’s been damaged inside me. I threw it away for my pride, Johnny, as I said, and I apologise with all the shrivelled little heart and soul left me for hurting you._
> 
> _I know you’re thinking ‘it’s not too late to fix it’ or something optimistic like that, but I am past weary of this life and hope God will forgive me for wasting it. And, Johnny, having read your stories, I suspect you may be wasting time, too. I know you, and I read more in your words than I think you meant to tell. Look hard and deep, my boy, in your heart of hearts, and don’t be afraid of what you may find. If you think there’s any chance, any chance at all, my dear boy, speak up. Don’t end up like me, only able to look back upon the chances you didn’t take and the decisions you made wrongly when it’s too late to fix the things you’ve ruined._
> 
> _If there’s any chance of Heaven for people who cheat Death by slipping out the back gate ahead of schedule, as I’m about to do, well, I hope I see you there, Johnny. Live your life, live it well, and don’t let your fear or your pride keep you from taking a chance at happiness. Remember, it might be more than your own happiness that’s at stake. _
> 
> _Lastly, don’t you dare blame yourself, John Watson! This is my decision, and these have been my mistakes, and you did all you could against my stubborn idiocy. Just try to remember the good times, would you, my dear boy? I know I shall._
> 
> _Always your friend,_
> 
> _Christopher_

It was a good while after reading the letter before Watson dared leave the room to wash his face and prepare himself for bed. He was nearly sick from grief and the sharp sting of more tears than he’d shed in years, though he was grateful for C.J.’s words all the same. How much better than to never know what was in the man’s head, why he’d done it, even if that knowledge hurt nearly as much as the loss.

Watson scarcely slept a wink that night, not that he really expected to do, and he wasn’t the only one at the breakfast table who looked hollow-eyed and worn thin. Without a word, just before they left the house for the funeral services, Watson drew Helena into a long, tight embrace. She hugged him back just as fiercely, a little breath of a sob lost in his lapels, and he kissed the crown of her head, murmuring, “Thank you, my dear.” He felt certain she understood, that her giving him the strongbox and allowing him to deal with it in private, as well as keeping everything however he wished, was so very appreciated. It was like having a bit of C.J. to keep with him; at least, it was the C.J. he’d known so well when they were younger and their world a little simpler.

The services were all that anyone could ask, though fewer attended than Watson would have expected. Likely the rumours of the ‘accident’ not being exactly an accident had kept some away; C.J. had still been somewhat popular in his neighbourhood, even though he’d been reclusive after coming home from Afghanistan. Watson tried to ignore such thoughts, instead thinking of C.J. and wondering what he might have said about the services, and about the other mourners. 

Watson even speculated on what his old friend might have had to say about Holmes, had they met, and he was suppressing a smile near the end, as he imagined his brash, athletic, sometimes frivolous old friend meeting the sharp-witted and often sharp-tongued Renaissance man that was his newer friend. It might have been a disaster or a wonderfully hilarious clash of personalities, but as much as the thoughts charmed him, they also made Watson almost painfully homesick for their rooms in Baker Street, and for the sound of Holmes’ voice, as well as his presence. 

Though Helena had expected him to stay and leave by the Monday morning train, Watson realised his initial worries were justified: he just couldn’t bear the ache of staying even one more night. He used the convenient excuse of ‘publisher’s deadlines’ and ‘ongoing investigations’, but Helena didn’t press him. She had always been the understanding sort. 

Before he left for the train station, she pulled him into another tight hug, patting his back as she lay her head upon his breast. “You’ll always be welcome here, Johnny,” she said, voice only just audible. 

“Thank you, Helena,” he replied just as quietly. He wasn’t sure he could return, but he had no reason to hurt her any more than she’d already been hurt. “I shall write, if nothing else. Please, take care of yourself.” 

With the lingering sensation of Helena’s lips upon his cheek and her light flowery scent upon his lapel, Watson went out to the cab awaiting him in the drive, the strongbox nestled in his satchel. His mind was a bit of a jumble, his emotions unruly and chaotic, but the ache in his heart seemed to stem from two differing directions: the past and the present. This tragic, nostalgic episode certainly showed Watson that he still had feelings from his past for C.J., but it also showed him where his heart truly lay currently, and that made his longing to return home perfectly sensible. 

Watson was glad of the mostly-empty late train to London, allowing him a compartment to himself, because he had some serious thinking to do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Monday, 27 April, 1896 ~ Pre-Dawn Hours through Mid-Morning**  
**~Holmes~**

Despite having gone out during the day and early evening on a number of errands, Holmes had made it a point to return home within approximately an hour of the time Watson should have arrived home, according to his telegram. The last train in from Kent that night had been due at half-past nine and Holmes knew almost to the minute how long it would take Watson to arrive at Baker Street by cab—it was certain he would not have walked—and when Watson still hadn’t shown his face in their rooms by ten, or even half-past ten, Holmes knew he’d either missed his train or gone somewhere other than home upon arrival in London. 

Stretched out on the sofa in his dressing gown and tatty slippers, Holmes spent a while working through various matters in his mind from somewhere after eleven o’clock in the evening until later on, when he started slipping off and on again into a light doze. He could have slept in his room, but sleeping was not precisely his goal; he would not have slept well there, in any case, had he even attempted it. He hadn’t slept since Watson had left, having had many little tasks, some chemical experiments, and even a recent case upon which to focus his mind. The two were not related, of course—Watson’s absence and Holmes not sleeping—as Holmes often bemoaned the necessity for sleep, despite it being such a waste of time. Had anyone asked, that is most certainly what Holmes would have maintained.

Much later, the silence of the wee hours was disturbed by the sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs leading up to the sitting room segueing to a dual thump, followed by the distinctive rattling jingle of keys being sorted just outside the door. Holmes was awake for the last fifteen steps of seventeen, and knew it was Watson before the first key-jingle. Given the inordinate amount of time it took before a key was tap-tap-tapped into the lock, Holmes deduced Watson was either terribly exhausted or inebriated; given Watson’s manner upon leaving and the terse nature of his telegram from the train station earlier in the evening, Holmes would bet a tidy sum on the ‘inebriated’ option. 

Since he’d been exercising his mind, as well as randomly napping, Holmes had barely noticed the little fire in the grate having long since gone to coals and then merely ash; consequently, the room had gone chilly, as the April nights were still a bit cool in the deepest parts of the night. He hadn’t left any lamps lit, not having any use for them whilst rummaging about in the contents of his mental ‘attic’ and sorting other things dwelling solely in his head, nor for the trouble of getting up and lighting them once the fire went out. Thus, when Watson entered the sitting room, it would very likely have looked empty to him—more so due to his lack of sobriety—and Holmes wasn’t entirely surprised that Watson didn’t greet him. It was of note that Watson only lit the candle on the table by the door, rather than a gas lamp or even one of the oil lamps; again, the process accompanied by more fumbling than was usual as Watson sought out the little go-to-bed shaped like an elephant with a raised trunk, the cavity in its back holding wooden matches ready to be struck against its base, even though it always rested there, right next to the candle. 

Definitely alcohol, Holmes decided firmly, and though he might have spoken up to alert Watson to his presence, something of the scientist in his nature bade Holmes merely observe his friend until such time as it seemed necessary or wise to seek Watson’s attention—or provide assistance. Once the candle was lit, Watson held it high to peer around the room, his stance unsteady and his eyes bleary and swollen enough for Holmes to note their condition from several yards away. But Holmes had excellent vision and he knew his subject well, so another would probably have missed that detail. Alcohol and grief, the one sought to dull the other, were Holmes’ resulting deductions.

Shaking his head, Watson gave a long, gusty sigh before going back into the open doorway and, holding onto the door frame to steady himself, bent down with the obvious intention of picking up his travelling satchel from where he’d let it fall when fussing about with his keys. However, he couldn’t pick it up without letting go of the door frame. Holmes watched as Watson gave a bit of a mumbling growl of frustration before leaning his shoulder against the door frame for a long moment, and then sliding very slowly downward into a not-quite-crouch until he could grasp the handle of the satchel. Although he wavered a bit on the way up, Watson managed to not only rise fully without dropping either satchel or candle, but to get the satchel to the seat of the basket chair near the door. With slightly more confidence, though only minimally less wobbling, Watson then retrieved his medical bag, which joined his satchel on the chair. Watson stood there for a few moments, wavering slightly as he stared down at the two bags, moving the candle about aimlessly while grumbling something indecipherable under his breath; after whatever argument he was having with himself, he huffed out another gust of a sigh and took the travelling satchel, leaving the medical bag upon the chair. 

A little twist of a smile moved Holmes’ lips as he witnessed Watson’s sub-par decision process, knowing a sober Watson would have tucked the smaller medical bag under one arm and reclaimed the satchel’s handle, leaving the other hand still free to carry the candle. Watching Watson move slowly toward the stairs to his room, Holmes was surprised when the man paused to look in the direction of Holmes’ room for a long, silent moment, obviously still unaware of Holmes’ presence on the sofa. After what must have been two minutes or more, Watson heaved the biggest sigh of all, which ended on a bit of a strangled sound which Holmes doubted he’d properly identified—had the loss of Watson’s friend been painful enough for him to not only indulge in a bout of drinking, but to put him near to tears once he’d got home? Did he long to confide in Holmes, but wished to avoid waking him, not knowing he was the length of the sofa and an end table from Watson at that moment? Surely not. Watson was such a steadfast fellow, his handsome moustache hiding one of the stiffest upper lips Holmes had ever known. In light of this, Holmes was just about to unfold himself from his ‘prayerful pose’ as Watson called it and speak up at last. 

However, just at that moment, Watson shook his head and murmured a quietly slurred, “No, not tonight. T’morrow,” and turned toward the stairs again; this time he didn’t pause, though he did kick the first tread once before actually stepping upon it properly. 

Holmes slowly sat upright, watching Watson lead his own wavering shadow up and around the corner towards his bedroom door. Running one hand over his lower face, elbow resting upon the back of the sofa, Holmes contemplated the direction Watson had gone as he considered possibilities. Not very long afterward, the faint noises from Watson’s room told of shoes thumping to the floor, drawers noisily opened and clumsily shut, and of bedsprings giving way under the burden of their owner’s body. When all was silent again for a little while, Holmes took himself off to his own room and even to his own bed, which was quieter than Watson’s, and which seemed somehow less cold and tedious than it had only hours before. 

Waking early, a few hours’ sleep more than sufficient to refresh his body and mind, Holmes predicted by a glance at his pocket watch resting open upon the bedside table that Watson would be abed a few hours more. The trip, the strain of the funeral and whatever else happened there—Holmes was still itching to know what it had been—as well as Watson’s liquid indulgence before arriving home would all feed into his friend’s tendency to have a bit of a lie-in when feeling unwell. Holmes might _want_ to find some excuse to wake him, but where he might have done just that a few years ago, he had learned a bit more consideration since being home again after his three year absence, if only for a tiny handful of people, of which John Watson was the foremost. Instead, he would spend the time well in an experiment or two while occupying his mind with his latest case, as well as a couple of intriguing recent developments in the agony columns.

Sometime later, Mrs. Hudson rapped on the door to announce herself, and though Holmes didn’t exactly _jump_ , his hand twitched minutely; therefore, instead of slicing a segment from the cigarillo of a suspected murderer, Holmes sliced a thin line into the side of his forefinger. 

“Blast! Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” His testy tone barely caused the woman to make a _‘now don’t you start’_ sort of frown for a moment before going back to her _‘trying to get something done’_ expression. 

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “I see Doctor Watson’s not awake yet, but shall I bring up some breakfast in a bit, anyway?” 

Resisting the urge to stick his now bleeding digit into his mouth, Holmes fetched a bit of clean cotton wool from his work table to staunch the smallish wound, speaking as he did so. “Watson came in quite late, so I expect he’ll be perhaps another hour yet, though he was feeling poorly. Perhaps a stronger batch of tea than usual might be a good idea.”

“And you, sir?” Mrs. Hudson’s tone was archly expectant, more so than merely wanting a response.

Holmes eyed her with knowing suspicion, but could hardly go down without a fight. “You thrust an enormous breakfast upon me yesterday, my good woman; I shall be another week digesting it!”

Her scoffing snort was eloquent of her opinion of his protests. “Doctor Watson entrusted me with your health whilst he was away, and that means he shall be asking me if you ate.” Tilting her head, her tone smoothing into motherly sweetness with an edge of steel underneath, she added, “If you had some tea and a bit of toast, maybe even some bacon and eggs… well, I could truthfully tell him you willingly agreed to eat a decent breakfast.” 

Looking for the styptic powder in amongst his supplies, Holmes made a ‘tsk’ing noise between his teeth as he narrowed his eyes at Mrs. Hudson’s well-camouflaged threat and, in turning his gaze away from her again, he spied Watson’s medical bag still resting where he’d left it before going up to bed. “Tea, yes; toast, yes; bacon, in moderation; eggs, no,” he answered crisply while fetching the sturdy black bag over to his worktable and opening it. 

“Fair enough,” Mrs. Hudson said with a gracious nod of her head, for all the world as if she wasn’t a lilac and vanilla-scented tyrant in an embroidered apron. “I shall bring it up in an hour, then.”

“Good,” Holmes muttered, suddenly distracted by several pieces of crumpled paper which had been shoved into the top of Watson’s medical bag. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he remembered to say before dismissing her from his attention. He may have heard an indulgent chuckle in a woman’s timbre precede the sound of the door closing somewhere behind him, but he didn’t mark it.

The papers in the medical bag were two letters with, but not inside, their envelopes: one letter written in a hand Holmes did not recognise, nestled half into an envelope which had been addressed to Watson in name only and opened, but never posted; the other letter definitely written _by_ Watson—an increasingly tipsy Watson judging by the growing number of ink blots and smudges as it proceeded—and it tucked under the flap of an envelope with nothing written upon its face but _‘Holmes’_. 

Quickly finding and making use of a bit of Watson’s styptic powder, as he’d initially meant to do, Holmes then wrapped his finger in a bit of gauze before clearing a spot atop his worktable and smoothing out the letters upon it. To be fair, he hesitated for almost a minute before reading the one addressed to Watson—he strongly suspected it might have some influence upon Watson’s state when he returned home, as well as upon whatever he may have written to Holmes in his own letter—but there was no way he could have left the letters unread, it just wasn’t in his nature; especially not with Watson’s peculiar behaviour prior to his departure and upon his return. 

By the time he finished the first letter, Holmes’ fingers lay against his lips, brows drawn together and a soft breath escaped him, shaped into only, “Oh, Watson.” 

Perhaps five minutes later, the second letter having been read, then read again, Holmes folded away the letter addressed to him and stuck it hurriedly into his breast pocket. The letter to Watson from his deceased friend, Wainwright, rested once more in the top of his medicine bag, which Holmes left sitting atop his worktable, intending to replace it where he’d found it on his way out, after he finished dressing. 

Only just remembering to jot down a note, Holmes simply left it in the middle of the dining table, unable to focus upon something so inconsequential when his head was full of so much of great consequence, indeed.

> _Have gone out.  
>  May be a good while._
> 
> _Holmes_


	5. Chapter 5

**Tuesday, 28 April, 1896**   
**~Watson~**

From waking with a mild hangover and finding Holmes had gone out after ordering him breakfast, until shortly after noon when he discovered his ‘misplaced’ medical bag, Watson had felt a strangely surreal sense of anticipation and foreboding. 

Watson had decided to give Holmes the letter he’d written on the train, in which he finally broached the subject of his deeper feelings for his friend, in hopes that those feelings—illegal though they were—might possibly be reciprocated rather than rebuffed. He had also put down in the letter that, should Holmes not feel the same, Watson hoped his declaration might be put aside in favour of their simply remaining friends as they always had been. 

Even as he drank another pot of Mrs. Hudson’s good, strong, restorative tea, Watson couldn’t concentrate on the papers she’d brought up. Every time he thought he’d settled his internal argument for giving Holmes the letter, another wave of apprehension would rise up to revive the very same arguments all over again; why could he not manage to go on as he had been, wanting the dream while quite happy with what he had of a reality which suited him so well? All the years he’d thought Holmes dead he had prayed and hoped to somehow turn back time, alter reality, do something to return to the days when Holmes was alive and Watson had a happy, exciting life he hadn’t ever appreciated enough when it was ongoing. He promised the powers that be he would be perfectly happy just to have Holmes alive, to know that brilliant, astounding mind was in the world once again. Well, now he had that wish granted, that prayer answered, and he had the temerity, the utter audacity, to want _more_? Wasn’t that just a bit greedy? 

“And yet,” he murmured softly into the steam of his teacup. “What if he were wanting it, too?” The tiny, random moments, spread out here and there since well before his friend’s ‘death’ kept returning to him, kept prodding him with the sharp, somehow irrepressible thought, _‘What if?’_

Then, wondering about a possible rewording of the letter, thinking to phrase it somehow more delicately, to plead his case less clumsily, Watson went up to withdraw it from his travelling satchel. Wherein he did not find it. Nor was it in his room. He turned his bedroom nearly upside-down seeking that simple envelope; finally flopping down upon the side of his bed with a great sigh and telling himself, “Think, man!” in a harsh voice. 

Where had he last seen it? The blurry memory of writing on the train, of three or four drafts on the cheap paper he’d bought at the stationer’s down the street from the train station—seen in passing on his way to buy a little Dutch courage to take on the train, as well—and he sort of recalled the startling call of the conductor announcing their arrival as he re-read his work. He’d stuffed everything away hastily in his satchel… no… no, he’d already closed the satchel and put it up on the rack above his seat; he’d stuffed the letter to Holmes, along with the letter from C.J., into his _medical bag_! 

Then had come another search, as the medical bag was not where he remembered leaving it, either. Though this second search was far shorter than the first, as he’d spied the bag upon Holmes’ work table in the first five minutes, and his momentary relief was followed by a sudden chill of suspicion. Oh, god! Holmes must have found the letter—both letters!

Apparently, he had done. C.J.’s letter was back in its envelope, neat as you please, but the letter to Holmes and its envelope were nowhere to be found in the bag. That could only mean Holmes had, indeed, found it and taken it; there could be no doubt that the man had read the letter, this was Sherlock Holmes, and he was at least 50% comprised of curiosity! Possibly 80%, on some days. He would have seen his own name and read the thing, without question. 

Panicking as quietly as he could for a little while, Watson enquired if Mrs. Hudson knew where Mr. Holmes had gone, only to find she hadn’t even seen him leave, and the sum of her information was the same as Watson’s: the brief note Holmes had left upon the table. He gave no indication of his own dilemma, of course, only that Holmes had left so unexpectedly that it troubled Watson, to which Mrs. Hudson agreed, though she immediately reassured him of the fact that Holmes had done so on many occasions before and everything turned out fine. Watson could only thank her, and carry on worrying in private once she’d left him again.

He couldn’t be still, wondering if Holmes might never return—of course he wouldn’t just vanish, all his things where there in their rooms, he’d much more likely ask Watson to leave if that was what he wanted—and then wondering how he could bear being sent away from the one place he had ever been most happy in his life, what would he do, and it was more than he could bear to think on for long. Soon he went up to put his room to rights, and in the process he could not help eyeing things with a view toward what he would pack first and what he might have sent to him. He’d want to go quickly, not draw it out. The whole notion was painful enough without the thought of a row on top of everything else, though some part of him was tensed and ready for a fight; because, as much as he didn’t want to face the melodrama of arguing with Holmes, he didn’t really want to let go of this friendship they had without at least trying to save it. 

The conflict inside him as he methodically tidied his bedroom was as bad as those early days when he’d first been discharged home, crippled and sickly, despairing of ever being of any use to anyone ever again. His oldest and dearest friend had turned him away, unwilling for his own broken form to be seen—even though Watson had been broken in the same war—and Watson knew he most likely would have made the same decision then as old C.J. had done so recently if he had not run across Stamford in the Criterion Bar. To what pointless end might Watson have sent himself had he not been introduced to Sherlock Holmes on that unexpectedly fateful day at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital? 

Time passed with terrible slowness and Watson didn’t want to go to his club or any of the places he might have gone on an average day, certain he would miss Holmes’ return should he be gone even a handful of minutes—that’s how these circumstances went, in real life as well as farcical plays and lurid yellow-backed novels, wasn’t it? The protagonist waits and waits until he can wait no more, steps out for but a moment and, lo! The person he was waiting for only _then_ deigns to appear. 

“Not on my watch, by heaven,” Watson grumbled under his breath as he stared down onto Baker Street through the sitting room window, the sunset a painter’s dream of colour beyond the rooftops to which Watson could not give due appreciation. His eyes kept hoping the next tall figure striding down the pavement or alighting from a cab would be the one he wished to see, that a telegram or message of some kind might be delivered, or something… _anything_ … could end this waiting. Good or bad, he was coming to a point where he only wanted a resolution, whatever it might be, as long as he could have an answer of _some kind_!

Too wound-up to sleep or settle with a book, yet too weary to keep pacing or pottering about their rooms, Watson eventually donned his nightclothes and dressing gown, along with slippers, and stretched out upon the sofa under the knitted throw they kept folded across the back. One of the embroidered throw pillows served him well enough as a head rest, though he became aware of a lingering familiar scent after a few moments—Holmes’, of course. Turning his face into the wear-softened fabric, Watson identified the clove and cinnamon notes of Holmes’ bay rum aftershave, along with the more complex, warm highlights of the ylang-ylang in the Macassar oil pomade Holmes used sparingly in his hair. Underneath these other aromas was another layer, something closer to a light musk, and Watson recognised it after a bit, as it imbued Holmes’ much-abused old dressing gown and was a subtle presence in Holmes’ bedroom. Watson had been bundled off to Holmes’ bedroom on a few occasions when he was ill or injured and the stairs up to his room too much to navigate, usually at Holmes’ insistence. Other times Watson had tended to Holmes there, when _he_ had been in the same situation, and once or twice slept by Holmes’ bedside in the man’s battered and frayed upholstered chair—he kept things he liked until they were falling to pieces, did Holmes, and Watson had come to find it more endearing than reproachable. 

Somewhere in the memories of past events, Watson’s mind surrendered at last to the comfort of sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Tuesday, 28 April, 1896**  
**~Sherlock & Mycroft Holmes~**

Holmes spent most of the day walking the streets of London in a bit of a daze. He stopped in at a few of his old boltholes, but either the conditions had altered to something far less conducive to deep thought, or the places were no longer available for his use. After spending an hour of twilight on a bench in the park near the Diogenes Club, Holmes made a growling huff of frustration before striding over and seeking a meeting with his elder brother.

“I want you to understand that this is a matter you will not repeat to anyone else, nor will you throw it in my face later for any reason,” Holmes announced the instant the door of Mycroft’s office closed behind the elder Holmes’ large form. “ _Any_ reason, Mycroft. On that condition I shall not budge.”

Dark brows similar to the younger Holmes’ in arch and cant but somewhat bushier overall lifted at this preemptive caveat. “Please tell me we’re not faking your death again, _petit frère_ , the last time was tedious beyond measure.” Mycroft Holmes managed to sound both world-weary and gently scathing as he spoke in a voice somewhat more resonant than his younger brother’s.

“Don’t attempt humour, Mycroft, you haven’t the talent for it,” sneered Sherlock Holmes as he all but threw himself into one of the plushly upholstered wingback chairs by the fireplace. “Yes, whatever you’re drinking,” Sherlock added a moment later, even as Mycroft Holmes went to the modest assortment of liquor on the sideboard—modest in choice, but each choice being an excellent representation of its type.

“Brandy it is,” murmured Mycroft, glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as he prepared two moderately sized brandies. “I’m afraid you’ll have to actually tell me what it is I’m not to breathe a word of ever again; I do boast a good talent for reading people, as do you, but I must have _something_ to work with.”

“It involves Watson,” Sherlock said reluctantly, but only after he had the glass of brandy in his hand and his brother had eased himself down into an identical chair set at an angle to the one in which Sherlock sat… well, ‘melodramatically lounged’ might be a better term, if not ‘slumped in despair’. 

Mycroft gave a wordless sound of acknowledgement, nodding once before sipping his own brandy, the rounded glass looking almost small in his large, fleshy hand; as opposed to the twin of that glass, which looked no less than average-sized where it rested, cradled in Sherlock’s long, lean fingers. They were within an inch of the same height, Sherlock only just the taller, but where the younger Holmes was built more along a wolfhound’s lines, with more lean muscle than one might expect hidden beneath his clothes, the elder Holmes was heavily fleshed, a somewhat corpulent mastiff by comparison. Mycroft Holmes’ face was jowly, with a treble chin and a smattering of white hairs in the thinning strands upon his head, as well as peppering the well-tended mutton chop whiskers he grew to hide some of the excess flesh at his cheeks. Still, despite his weight, Mycroft Holmes had an indefinable air of competence which could turn subtly dangerous when necessary. 

The silence between them went on for nearly five minutes, accompanied by the crackling of a healthy fire on the grate and the quiet ticking of the brass carriage clock on the mantel. Both took small, meditative sips of their drinks during the wait. Finally, Sherlock let out a long sigh and spoke barely above those ambient sounds. “Watson has… given me to understand there may be… more to his feelings than friendship.”

“Yes, and?” Mycroft replied curiously, as if this information was not the actual, ‘new’ content, but would lead to something of note. Sherlock’s head whipped to the side and he stared at his brother in something between outrage and surprise. Blinking in an almost believable ‘innocent’ expression, Mycroft spoke mildly. “Surely you can’t have failed to see it before now?” 

“Would I be here, like this, if I had done?” demanded Sherlock before taking another drink of his brandy and leaning one elbow on the armrest nearest his brother, the better to give him a narrow-eyed suspicious glare. “What do you know of the matter?”

Brows climbing toward his receding hairline once again, Mycroft gave his younger brother a rather disbelieving look. “What concerns me is that you seem to have been genuinely surprised by this. You share lodgings with the man, twice over now, and have certainly read his accounts of your adventures, whether or not you pretend to find them logically objectionable.”

The glare thrown at Mycroft by Sherlock was a fine example of its kind and would have put a lesser man on the back foot, if not on the retreat; however, Mycroft had been seven years old when Sherlock was a tiny, squalling infant, and it was difficult to be too very intimidated by someone who once used to drool on your shoulder and toddle about at your heels like a puppy. Conversely, it was equally difficult to be hard-hearted with someone who once looked upon you like a combination play-toy, storyteller, and cleverest person ever in all the world. Whatever their differences, Mycroft still loved his ‘little’ brother, and he wanted him to be happy. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft finally said in a gently-chastising tone, “I can only suppose you, of all people, have somehow missed all the clues in those stories due to your persistent stifling of your more artistic nature. My god, brother mine, they are all but thinly-veiled love stories about how wondrous you are and how much your ‘Boswell’ respects and adores you above all others.”

Sherlock blinked as if he might shy away from the words like a dog shies away from a cruel master’s boot, or a closeted romantic shies from a direct touch upon his not-so-well-hidden heart. His fingers went to his breast pocket, pressing the papers there against himself firmly. His voice was barely audible, gaze blindly focused upon the fire. “I thought I was… reading more into it than was there. Doubted my… assumptions.” 

“They weren’t assumptions, _mon frère_ , they were deductions, even natural conclusions, all based upon the evidence at hand.” Mycroft gestured with his glass, swirling the brandy left within lazily afterward. “Now that the man himself has confirmed what you failed to believe upon previous evidence, you face the daunting task of deciding upon a response. Given your histrionics, I hesitate to tell you I have long since extrapolated what your response was likely to be.”

“You don’t… disapprove?” So much of a younger, far less self-possessed Sherlock lay in the question that Mycroft couldn’t help reveal a genuinely surprised expression, possibly with a hint of hurt lurking behind it. 

“My dear Sherlock… little brother… do you truly think I would stand in the way of your happiness?” 

Swallowing, eyes still uncertain, lips pressing together for a long moment, Sherlock finally said cautiously, “No, I do not genuinely believe you would, but… that still doesn’t answer my question.”

Sighing heavily, Mycroft shook his head and tossed back the last of his brandy before shifting in his seat with a soft grunt to look more directly upon Sherlock. “My more practical side wishes you could have given your heart to a member of the fairer sex, I admit, but even knowing how much more difficult it will be for you—should you choose this path—I will do what I can for you.” His expression grew more intent, a tiny thread of menace creeping in. “If I had ever thought your Doctor Watson had anything but your best interests at heart, I assure you he would not have remained your fellow lodger, or even in London, for long.” 

Sherlock’s expression clouded over on the instant, fierce affront warring with something closer to hurt, again. “Mycroft…” he intoned warningly, though he let the name remain the only thing spoken aloud.

“Tut, tut, _mon frère_ , I’m not threatening your dear doctor. Unruffle those feathers.” With a twiddly-fingered gesture of dismissal, Mycroft pushed himself up from his chair with a breathy sound of effort. “Now, enough melodrama; I have matters to attend.”

Sherlock made a frustrated sound, shuffling around in his seat to glare at the fireplace, but didn’t otherwise show signs of leaving, nor speaking at that moment.

Hiding the slight quirk of a quickly passing smile, Mycroft sounded nothing but business-like as he moved towards his large desk across the room. “I expect you’ll want more time to consider all the ramifications of what will be a rather large step for you. Perhaps you might like to spend the night at the Manor House; you know you’re always welcome.” 

“I’m concerned for more than just myself, Mycroft,” Sherlock said with less bite than he’d planned. “This would be… Watson will expect certain things of me… it may be that I cannot…” Shaking his head instead of taking up the lingering sentence and finishing it, Sherlock let go another sigh, gusty with frustration and self-doubt, something he wasn’t much accustomed to experiencing, as a rule.

“You’d best be sure, then,” Mycroft said with a nod. “Whatever he feels for you or you feel for him, Sherlock, you cannot promise what you haven’t got in you to offer.” Turning and only leaning against the desk instead of sitting in the large, leather-upholstered chair behind it, Mycroft’s voice turned gentle again, eyes kind in a way Sherlock had rarely seen since they had both become adults. “As much as he might want… certain things… I honestly believe your Doctor Watson would not want you to do anything that doesn’t bring you both… equal enjoyment.” 

A faint wash of pink coloured Sherlock’s face and he nodded a little jerkily, his voice nearly a whisper as he agreed. “He wrote… if I didn’t wish to…” Clearing his throat, gathering a bit more of his self-possession, his voice firmed a bit more as he concluded, “he doesn’t require we change anything, if it’s not what I want, too. He would rather our friendship remain as it has been, rather than push me into anything, or put me off.” 

“He is a better man than I already thought him,” Mycroft murmured, contemplating a section of the Persian rug beneath his feet. 

“He is a better man than both of us,” Sherlock said proudly, rising from his chair. “I will leave you to your work,” he added as he set his brandy glass on a side table.

“Do let me know how it all falls out, won’t you, _mon frère_?” Mycroft asked with a rather whimsical expression. “Commend me to Mrs. Leung; her last package was immensely appreciated.” 

Rolling his eyes at his brother’s assumption that Sherlock would take up his suggestion and go to their old home, hours from London, which—despite the contrary urge to go elsewhere—he was intending to do Sherlock muttered, “Should our paths cross.”

Mycroft heard, of course he did, and he wore a smallish curve to his lips as he moved around his desk to finally sit behind it, the dark red leather squeaking a bit even as the frame of the chair groaned quietly upon taking the man’s weight. One would think Sherlock had already left the room for all the obvious attention Mycroft paid him, opening a thick ledger placed neatly upon his blotter and taking up one of several coloured pencils in the holder near the desk-lamp he had not yet lit. 

At the door, hand on the knob, Sherlock Holmes turned his head, not quite enough to actually meet his brother’s eyes, should the man have turned them his way, and he spoke in a quiet, but sincere voice. “Thank you, Mycroft.” 

He didn’t linger for an answer; though, truthfully, he didn’t require hearing what he already knew, despite any brotherly friction. One worry laid to rest, he was left to sort out all the rest before facing Watson with any hope of an honest answer. 

And that was assuming, as a small part of Holmes’ mind knew he oughtn’t, that Watson had decided to give the letter to him—finding it in the medical bag was a far, far cry from having it handed to him or left for him by its author. Still, he was in the middle of it now, and he would simply have to add his apologies for stumbling upon the thing prematurely to the rest of what he would say. Whatever that might be.


	7. Chapter 7

**Wednesday, 29 April, 1896**  
**~Watson~**

Mrs. Hudson discovered Watson still lingering groggily on the sofa near noon, after a night spent less poorly asleep than miserably awake, and she ‘tsk-tsk-tsk’ed him in motherly fashion, urging him off to wash and dress. When he returned feeling slightly more like himself, she had only just brought strong coffee and a hearty brunch, along with a telegram from ‘M. Holmes’.

> _J WATSON  
>  YOUR ASSISTANCE ADVISABLE SOONEST SH LOCATION. TRAVEL ARRANGEMENTS MADE. COURIER WILL BRING PERTINENT TICKETS DOCS ETC. GOOD LUCK.  
>  M HOLMES_

Staring at the telegram for most of his brunch, Watson felt a strange curl of anxiety and embarrassment roiling in his gut. His assistance was advisable… soonest… at SH location—clearly Sherlock Holmes’ location. Had something happened to Holmes? Surely that would be mentioned in the telegram, which it definitely was not. Moreover, the addition of that ‘good luck’ at the end was worrisome—did Mycroft Holmes know about the letter? It seemed terribly likely, but then Holmes’ brother was urging Watson to go to wherever Holmes was. Excepting that neither Holmes brother was given to transparency and who knew what machinations might be behind this seemingly simple ‘it would be best if you went to Sherlock Holmes’ location, your marching orders are on the way, now go’ telegram?

Before Watson had finished his second cup of bracingly strong coffee, a courier did indeed deliver an envelope with train tickets and a sheaf of very basic directions: Get on a particular train at a specific time, transportation would be awaiting him when he got to his destination, and all expenses were paid throughout. Watson felt he could hardly do anything other than take said ‘marching orders’ and go. If nothing else, he would probably have an end to wondering about Holmes’ reaction to the letter, one way or another. 

So it was that, several hours later, Watson stepped out of a rather stately if somewhat aged coach and looked up at the moderately impressive front of the country home to which he’d been conveyed directly from the train station. Having brought nothing but his walking stick, hat, and an overcoat, Watson had no excuse to linger. By the time he was ascending the last few weathered stone steps, the large front door was swinging inward and a slightly portly, though dignified, butler stood in the opening. He was perhaps in his fifties, his hair full and frosted with iron grey where it wasn’t dark brown; though he had something of a pear-shape, his livery was impeccable, and his dark blue eyes held a glint of good humour. Whether it had to do with Watson’s arrival or something else, he could not know.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said with a slight incline of his upper body and a deep nod. “Would you be Doctor Watson?”

“Yes, that would be me,” Watson confirmed as he stopped before the butler. “I’ve been sent for by Mr. Holmes.” He deliberately didn’t specify which ‘Mr. Holmes’ in case—as he was fairly certain—the one he was actually going to see wasn’t the one who sent for him. 

“We have, indeed, been expecting you, Doctor Watson.” Standing back and gesturing for Watson to enter, he added, “I am Llewellyn, and at your service.” 

Entering the moderately grand entry hall, his steps on the dark marble floor only echoing a bit as Llewellyn took his overcoat and hat, not even attempting to gather his walking stick. Several small paintings were interspersed with other ornamental knickknacks on the walls, and the heavy wooden coatrack arched over an equally solid bench with a gleaming brass mud-rail running close to the base. It was a bit grand to be termed ‘homey’, but it had a more lived-in air than Watson had expected from his first view outside. 

“Would you care to refresh yourself, Doctor Watson, or shall I have someone take you to Mr. Holmes?” 

It was as if the man knew Watson might be in a hurry to see Holmes. Chuckling nervously, wondering if everyone knew his business or it just seemed like it, Watson made a brief gesture with his walking stick. “Yes, I’d rather see Mr. Holmes first, thank you.” 

“Very good, sir,” Llewellyn replied, leading the way into a lobby with several doors at its perimeter and a gracefully solid staircase leading upward toward a large mullioned window. The small panes of glass making up the whole of the window were set in no specific pattern Watson could detect, but all were in varying shades of green and blue, giving an almost underwater effect while lending a calming colour to the room. 

Llewellyn had rung for someone as they passed into the larger area and a footman came in quickly, even as Watson stood before the staircase to have a better look. He had time to notice the carpet runner leading upward had been woven with a dappled pattern in shades of deep green with smaller spots of varying jewel-tones, giving the effect of flowers scattered along its length. More paintings decorated the walls, some portraits, but most apparently scenic works with lots of sky and greenery, along with a few showing seaside themes. Again, certainly not a poor home, but more comfortable and restful than Watson would have anticipated. 

“Doctor Watson?” Llewellyn prompted near Watson’s elbow, making him aware he’d been ogling blatantly, but there was no mockery or censure on the butler’s face. “Rodney will show you to Mr. Holmes in the garden, where I believe tea has recently been set out.” 

The footman, probably not yet out of his teens, bore himself with as much dignity as one can muster with a head of flaming red hair and a plentitude of freckles scattered across his face like flecks of paint. His eyes were brilliantly and rather redundantly green, as if the bright ginger hair hadn’t been enough to mark his ancestry. He was respectful, though, and didn’t move too quickly for Watson and his walking stick to keep up without struggling. Watson was distractedly grateful.

As they moved through the house, down several hallways and one short stair, Watson’s attention was divided between glimpses of tastefully decorated rooms and a variety of art, as well as intriguing bits of sculpture and knickknacks he couldn’t always make out before he was past them. Late afternoon sunlight shone on mellow parquet floors, slanting in through lightly curtained windows bracketing a pair of French doors leading out onto a patio, beyond which was an orderly garden. Blooms were beginning to show here and there in the April sunshine, some more plentiful, depending on the plant, and the walkways were stone-paved with neatly kept borders. 

“Mr. Holmes is in the back garden, sir,” Rodney the footman said only a little hesitantly when Watson paused to take a view of the very pleasing sight before him. Perhaps he was delaying the inevitable, as well, but not really intentionally. 

“Yes, of course,” Watson murmured, clearing his throat. “Carry on, lad,” he urged with a squaring of his shoulders and a strengthening of his resolve.

Along the main path, past shrubs, small trees in earthenware pots, a few nooks with wrought-iron benches and chairs, and down a wide set of stone steps, Watson saw a stand of more mature trees, branches forming a loose perimeter around an oblong swath of deep emerald grass. Wildflowers grew in apparently random order across the green, looking much like the carpeting on the main staircase inside the house. The path split into two arcs around the grassy expanse, both leading around toward the area within and beneath the trees, all of which were just beginning to bloom—perhaps they were fruit trees, Watson thought, trying to recall what scraps of horticulture he might have picked up—and he saw a woman coming into view along the left-hand paved path.

She was middle-aged, or older, with white-streaked black hair around features Watson thought might be Chinese. Her dress was that of a servant, likely a cook or one of the kitchen staff; the apron over her full dark skirts was pristine and the little white cap covering the braids at the back of her head matched it. As they approached one another on the path, the woman eyed Watson intently, glancing only briefly at Rodney.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Leung,” Rodney said, his tone respectful in a manner that told Watson this was likely one of the senior staff in the kitchens, perhaps even the head cook. “I’m escorting Doctor Watson to see Mr. Holmes.”

“Good.” The woman’s voice was mid-ranged and firm, but not unkind. “I just set out the tea a little while ago. Good afternoon to you, Doctor Watson.” Mrs. Leung’s greeting to Watson was accompanied with a very minimal curtsey, but an almost regal bow of her head. Her eyes were a golden shade of brown, like amber, and there was an almost-hidden smile in them. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Leung,” Watson returned, nodding briefly, though he had an odd urge to bow. The woman had a strong presence, and he imagined she’d have to have quite a bit of backbone and brains in a household that might have two Holmeses or more in it at any given time. 

Mrs. Leung turned her attention upon Rodney and made a slight shooing gesture. “I will direct Doctor Watson from here, thank you, Rodney.” 

It seemed Rodney wanted to argue the point for a moment, but then only nodded in acquiescence. “Yes, Mrs. Leung. Good day to you, Doctor Watson.”

“Thank you, Rodney,” was all Watson could say. He hardly cared who took him to Holmes, but he could plainly see this wasn’t what the lad had expected. Still, the young man bowed briefly and hurried back the way they’d come. Watson fought down a little smile at the thought of this Mrs. Leung’s power to exact such swift obedience.

“If you will follow the path around to the left, Doctor Watson, you will find Master Sherlock at the far end, in the Bee Grove.” Mrs. Leung extended a finger in the direction of which she spoke and Watson looked ahead, seeing the beginning of the curve in the paving stones, leading off around the trunk of a tree surrounded by a dense hedge.

“Bee Grove?” he asked automatically, knowing how fond Holmes was of bees.

Mrs. Leung nodded once, replying, “All the trees and plants there are those beneficial to bees, and the hives are just beyond it. Thus, the Bee Grove. Mrs. Holmes was quite fond of bees, rest her soul.” 

“Ah, I see.” He looked forward, feeling the same sort of anticipatory nerves as he once had before a battle. It wasn’t surprising, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable. “Thank you, Mrs. Leung.”

“You are most welcome, Doctor Watson,” she said with a hint of a smile, nodding in that same regal manner before moving past him and towards the house. It was apparent to him, despite not possessing a Holmes level of intellect, she had elected to ‘direct’ him specifically so he could approach Holmes alone, rather than accompanied by a servant. It was unusual, but somehow he felt it was meant kindly, though whether it was for his benefit or Holmes’, he had no idea.

Watson took a firmer grip upon his walking stick and continued on along the pathway, feeling strangely encouraged, though he couldn’t have said exactly why. Nevertheless, onward he went.

As he continued around the corner and along the arc of paving stones, Watson began to see the occasional bee glide by in the sun-dappled air, then others moving in the bushes and branches, dancing about the blossoms in their search for nectar and pollen. The scent of flowers grew stronger, along with that of moisture on the air, accompanied by the faint sound of trickling water. In the centre of that green nook in the larger grounds, between the arcs of the split pathway, was a stone fountain, and Watson took a good look as he continued. 

The central figure of the fountain was an old-fashioned hive, the rounded dome shape immediately recognisable; from the base of the hive upward, a spiral of metal had been shaped to resemble bees ascending, an orderly swarm circling the hive on their way toward the sky. At the topmost portion of that spiral was, apparently, where the water poured out, and it made a lacework of water over and between the metal bees, all the way back down to circular the basin below. It made Watson smile to see the whimsical fountain sculpture, but he could not linger to study it more closely. 

The pathway curved inward to meet a more solidly paved area extending under the canopy of branches, with stone benches nestled amidst stone planters and large earthenware pots overflowing with flowering plants and herbs. The air smelled heavenly in the warm spring sun, and the sound of the fountain blended delightfully with the subtle hum of the bees flitting about in their duties amidst all the greenery. Inhaling deeply, Watson got as far as the edge of the paved area when he spied a marble-topped wrought iron table and half a dozen matching chairs with gracefully curved legs, each chair bearing a round cushion made of a multi-hued fabric which, maintaining the now obvious theme, resembled flower strewn grass.

Atop the table was a tea service, with several partially emptied plates of typical comestibles, and, sitting at that table, legs crossed to one side, was Sherlock Holmes. Holmes was just then in the process of looking up from a rather rumpled piece of paper, while a less-abused envelope in similar colour lay upon the table nearby.

Watson knew quite well what was written upon that rumpled page and, despite the tremor of nervous tension rushing through him, he was determined now to face Holmes' response to it with as much dignity and courage as he could muster. That did not stop the flutter in his stomach nor the ache in his chest as he dared to lift his gaze to meet whatever expression he might find upon Holmes’ face.


	8. Chapter 8

Watson’s letter, minus spelling mishaps, splotches of ink, and smudges:

>   
>  _Sunday, 26 April, 1896  
>  In transit, Kent to London_
> 
> _My dearest Sherlock,_
> 
> _As I write this letter, I’m uncertain whether I shall have the courage to actually give it to you. The funeral was very hard, as I’m sure you will have deduced once we’re together again. Not so much due to the obvious difficulties of mourning amongst strangers as due to what came before._
> 
> _The night I arrived, C.J.’s sister, Helena, greeted me kindly enough, but we had not seen each other in years, and there was no avoiding the reason why I had at last come to visit, so it wasn’t a very happy reunion. She led me to the guest room she had reserved for me and then turned over to me a little strongbox C.J. had left to me, along with the cryptic assurance that I would know where the key might be found._
> 
> _It so happened I did know, as I had stayed with the Wainwright family many, many times over the years since we were schoolboys, usually sharing C.J.’s room during my visits, and my friend had a hiding spot for just such trinkets, which I remembered well. Finding the key where I expected, I opened the strongbox to discover a bundle of letters –his and mine –as well as a few mementos, most harking back to shared adventures of our past. He also left me a note explaining his reasons for doing such a terrible thing, saying he regretted that his keeping me away all this time meant nothing more than a waste of all the things that might have been. I do feel part of the blame is mine, despite his claims otherwise, because I could have pushed, could have insisted, but I have made myself a victim of my own pride, too, and now I shall have no chance of reparation._
> 
> _However, the whole situation –my old friend’s untimely death, his regrets and mine, the reminder of our mortality, etcetera- also served to jolt me out of a sort of complacent stasis into which I have allowed myself to settle. I have long wished I might change some things in my life, and that the world was other than it is so I might say and do certain things which are very ill-advised, possibly outright foolish, but greatly desired all the same. Only fear of the repercussions has kept me silent, that complacency seemed far better than risking all, yet now, with all that has been stirred in my breast, I cannot bear to remain silent any longer._
> 
> _Holmes, I admire you more than any other man I have known in my life. Your intelligence, your wit, your astonishingly varied skills, and the great heart you generally keep so well-hidden from the world; all of these things have drawn me to you and held me fascinated all these years. I value –no, I treasure– our friendship as one of the greatest gifts granted me in my lifetime. I think, honestly, had I cared for you one little jot less, I might never have forgiven you what you felt to be a necessity, your pseudo death and subsequent absence for three years. I wonder if you ever think on how it was that I, your dearest friend and closest thing to a confidante, managed to welcome you back into my good graces and take up our friendship, very nearly as we left it, after the pain and misery your actions brought me. Did you deduce it already, on that day when your almost magical return from the dead had me swooning as I’ve never done in my life save for incidents of blood loss or head wounds? I have wondered, but never dared ask, and you’ve never given the slightest sign that I could recognise, but surely your immense powers of observation must have caught some of the clues I tried so hard not to give you?_
> 
> _I have sometimes thought I saw a glimmer of something more in your eyes, or a brief shift in your expression toward a tender or even heated impulse, and you’ve certainly shown you care for me, but never anything beyond the manner of a deep friendship –never anything certain. If you, indeed, had not figured it out before, you likely will have by now. _
> 
> _My dear Holmes—Sherlock—you hold a place deeper in my heart than any ‘friend’ could ever reach. Only my dear Mary ever came a close second to you, and it was she who informed me of that fact without reproach, and who stood by me when I mourned your supposed death._
> 
> _As we both know, I do not have anything like your depth of intellect, and thus I have never managed to come up with what I felt to be a safe way to tell you how I feel. A way where, should you not feel the same as I, we might forget it afterwards and return to our usual lives. Each and every time I am moved to speak at last, or to craft a letter as I am doing now, setting down in ink the words which I cannot seem to force past my lips, I see a vision of your face moved to disappointment, even to disgust, and my blood runs cold. I would far rather go the rest of my days being your truest, dearest friend and nothing more, than to never again know the joy of being by your side in all the ways possible, embarking on daring adventures and lounging in companionable idleness, both dear to me in different but equal measure._
> 
> _Even now, approaching London and the close of this letter, I still cannot say absolutely if I will follow through on my intention to give you the blessed thing. To be brutally honest, Sherlock, I think I could better face returning to the bloodiest, most hopeless battle I ever knew in Afghanistan, knowing I would die torn apart by enemy fire, than seeing your affection turn to hate. It is only the dear, heartfelt hope of seeing your beloved features reflect a similar love to mine that keeps my hand moving, putting down the contents of my innermost soul upon this page._
> 
> _In closing, I hope you will understand that I would never wish for anything you cannot freely give. If I am mistaken in sharing these words, please, oh please, disregard them and let me still have the great honour of your friendship. I will not mention the matter again; you have my most solemn word._
> 
> _Ever yours in any way you’ll have me,_
> 
> _John_

Holmes heard voices in the distance, Mrs. Leung and Rodney, though he couldn’t hear their actual words, but tuned them out almost at once. He had spent most of the day stewing and theorising, as well as plotting out potential conversations and arguments—both for and against attempting to take his friendship with Watson further—but, without eventually addressing the man himself, it was all ‘sound and fury, signifying nothing’ in the end. Eventually, he would have to face Watson, not only with having taken the letter his friend may or may not have decided to give him, but with his answer to that letter. Best that he wasted no more time then, Holmes decided with a sigh. He had already spent far too long weighing the odds, balancing probabilities, and… to be brutally honest… dithering.

Steps on the pathway penetrated his decision-making fugue only after a portion of his mind not subsumed in the dilemma at hand recognised those particular steps, the tap of that particular walking stick. Watson! How?

Holmes looked up to see Watson approaching, already off the path and onto the paved heart of the Bee Grove. In a flash, he read his old friend’s uncertainty, his fear, and his determination to continue in spite of it all; and beneath everything, or perhaps woven throughout, was something Holmes knew to be hope. Words came to Holmes’ lips while his mind was still analysing everything. “Watson. How is it that you are here?” 

Watson stopped a good two yards away, swallowing as he looked down at the ground for a moment, a hint of a nervous smile curving his lips briefly, his moustache more prominent before subsiding with the passing of the response. “I don’t suppose my saying ‘by cab, then train, then coach’ will be of much help.”

“Obvious,” Holmes agreed, brief and yet not as terse as he might have said it another time. His face felt stiff and hot while his hands were ice-cold, the crackle of the paper under his right hand the only proof that he still kept Watson’s letter spread out upon his thigh. It took a few seconds more than it ought to have for him to come to an answer. “Mycroft.”

Nodding, Watson took a restive step, deliberately setting the end of his walking stick upon the ground with a hollow _‘thok’_ as if settling in for a siege. He gave a nod. “He sent a telegram saying my ‘assistance was advisable soonest’ and made the travel arrangements.” Watson’s eyes focused upon the much-abused paper beneath Holmes’ hand, and said with chin up and face set in a valiant attempt at neutrality, “I expect you know why I’m here, however it came about.”

“Again, obvious,” Holmes murmured, nodding more than was necessary, his own gaze dropping to the letter before he forced it up again. “The only thing which is not obvious is…” Clearing his throat to hide an imminent crack in his voice, Holmes knew, even as he spoke, that this was indeed the only question he really needed answered. “Did you genuinely mean what you wrote or was it the result of nostalgia and too much alcohol?” 

A hint of colour came to Watson’s cheeks, his gaze dropping for just a moment before he lifted it again, catching Holmes’ eyes with an obvious effort to be open when instinct bade him hide the truth. Watson’s voice was a little hoarse, but resonant with sincerity. “I cannot lie, my dearest friend; I was far closer to drunk than sober. Still, drunk or sober, I mean every word.” 

Holmes inhaled sharply, having certainly expected a straight answer, even an affirmative—despite it being the perfect excuse for him to back out at the last moment—but Watson’s words affected him far more viscerally than he had anticipated. Swallowing a strange tightness in his throat, he let out the breath, releasing the horrible tension of uncertainty with it. “Then my answer can be nothing other than ‘yes’.”

Watson’s mouth fell open slightly, eyes widening and brows rising high. “Yes?” He took two quick steps forward, but then halted abruptly. “Yes… to which? Remaining friends or…?” 

Smiling, feeling his confidence flood back in at this sign of hesitant uncertainty in his most dear Doctor Watson, Holmes rose to his feet and took two steps of his own. “Yes to both, actually,” Holmes said quietly, warmly, not hiding the smile that burst forth upon his lips and lightened all his features accordingly. “I would be devastated to lose your friendship, Watson, but… it would be my greatest good fortune to have your love, as well.” 

“You have—” Watson’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat harshly, eyes liquid and bright. “You have them both, Holmes. Ever and always.”

Relieved, Holmes also felt quite amazed, and his centre seemed to be rapidly filling up with some vivid, bubbly something that felt like light and warmth and the fluttering buzz of the bees he enjoyed so well; as he saw what appeared to be a quite similar reaction on Watson’s face, he thought perhaps this was joy. “And you have mine, in kind,” Holmes managed to say, his voice barely above a rumbling whisper.

Though he worked his lips several times, it seemed more words would not meet Watson’s summons, and he reached out to take Holmes’ hand in his own—how warm Watson’s fingers felt in comparison! 

Holmes took the briefest glance around the little nook of sun and greenery and happily humming bees. They were quite alone, he and Watson. Impatient with words, Holmes did what his heart and mind bid him in tandem, he pulled Watson that last step closer via their clasped hands and embraced him fervently with a soft sound of wordless enthusiasm. 

Watson’s return embrace came at once, and for a long moment they were just holding one another, hearts thudding wildly, breath shaking and irregular, and if Holmes had actually held any further doubts, the immediate rightness of that embrace would have banished them. He turned his face into the fine hair above Watson’s ear and whispered, “Thank you, John.”

After a broken sound and a somewhat watery inhale, Watson whispered in return, “Always, Sherlock… alw—”

Holmes cut Watson’s words off with a kiss, impetuous and heart-felt, he couldn’t wait another moment. 

Not surprisingly, Watson had absolutely no objection, and returned the kiss with all the welcoming enthusiasm Holmes could ever have wanted. 

It was dusk before they meandered back along the path to the house, arm in arm, speaking of hopes and plans for when they returned home to Baker Street, their words soft murmurs meant only for one another.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end. Thanks to all you readers who've been commenting along the way, I appreciate your kind words and helpful feedback so very much. I hope you've all enjoyed the ficcery as much as I've enjoyed writing it for you. <3

**Epilogue**

Neither Holmes nor Watson noted the two beaming faces watching their return from the garden through the kitchen window, nor had any awareness of a letter dispatched to London, addressed to Mr. M. Holmes at the Diogenes Club. However, both gentlemen suspected some kind of benevolent collusion in the travel arrangements made on their behalf, as well as the bottle of quite good champagne awaiting them on the sideboard in their sitting room at Baker Street. 

The confirmation was a small card tucked under the bottle which was blank except for the single word ‘Congratulations’ and the initials ‘MH’ beneath. 

Holmes and Watson toasted their benefactor, and each other, in good spirits, though Holmes swore Watson to never reveal the truth to his elder brother—the nosy old busybody would never let them hear the end of it—and yet, less than a week after that first kiss in the gentle spring beauty of the Bee Grove, Watson sent a brief, carefully worded, letter of thanks. Mycroft Holmes was kind enough, and wise enough, to never mention it to his younger brother, although he always had a certain hint of smugness about him whenever he visited. Sherlock Holmes never asked why, and John Watson never had to.


End file.
